‘One that someone who sews and spins for a living asks,’ said Sorcha. ‘If there’s fish a-biting, then aye, they’ll be out. But how about you, lass? Did you sleep all right?’

‘I did. Thank you, Sorcha, thanks to both of you.’ Isobel rolled her shoulders. ‘It’s almost as if what happened with Mr McGregor was just a bad dream.’

‘That’s the way to think about it,’ said Sorcha.

‘If you really want to show your thanks,’ said Nettie, staring in dismay at the unwashed quaichs and the platter where crumbs of cheese and some half-eaten bannocks hardened, ‘you can clean up and maybe find something left to bring down to us later.’

About to protest that Isobel could leave it, Sorcha was pushed towards the bedroom. ‘Get dressed,’ Nettie hissed, throwing clothes at her. She returned to the kitchen. ‘If you could do that for us, Isobel, then we’ll consider the debt paid.’

Sorcha smiled as she put on her clothes and arranged her hair. Nettie had always been direct.

Within minutes, Sorcha and Nettie were ready to leave. Isobel promised to bring vittles to them as soon as she could.

At the front door Sorcha took a deep breath, releasing it in a stream of white. As they headed down Marygate, Nettie looped her arm through Sorcha’s, humming. It was easy to believe she’d never left, Sorcha thought as they strode down the road, dodging puddles and being careful not to slip on the ice that clung to the compacted dirt and stones.

Raising her chin, she studied the cottages as they passed. The houses might be old and worn, harled in grey and brown with more mould growing than the front doors had paint, but they were familiar. She could see the village gossip busy wiping frost from a pane. Mrs Porter dropped her cloth and pressed her face against the glass before disappearing. Sorcha heard her calling out to someone in the house. News of her return hadn’t reached everyone, then.

Banks of dirty snow lay against the graveyard wall, resistant to the earlier rains. On the other side of the road a grey-muzzled dog sat outside a front door and raised his head to look at them, considering if they were worth a bark. It was Crabby, so-named because as a pup he was forever chasing crabs along the sand. That was, until one pinched his nose in its claws. Sorcha always used to save some fish for him. The door opened as they passed and a woman waved.

Sorcha waved back. Nettie called out, ‘Good morning to you, Mrs Fraser. Happy New Year.’

‘And to you, Nettie, and Sorcha. Good to see you again, lass.’

‘You too, Mrs Fraser,’ said Sorcha. ‘I’ll be sure to bring some fish for Crabby.’

Moira Fraser smiled and with another wave, shooed the dog inside and shut the door.